Riding Shotgun. Joanna Wayne

when your world had come to an end, as Tucker, Riley and Pierce’s had when their parents had died instantly in a car crash, Charlie and Esther were the ones who’d stepped in. They’d taken them into their home so they wouldn’t be separated, helped them through the grief and given them the courage to go on.

      “Don’t go getting the big head, but I think you just landed on a capital idea,” Pierce said.

      “Glad I could help and it’s about damn time you get back to your Texas roots, bro.”

      “You could be right about that, too.”

      “Keep me posted and good luck with full-time fatherhood.”

      “Thanks. I’ll need it.”

      Boy, was he going to need it. But at least he had a plan and Texas on his mind.

      * * *

      GRACE TOOK HER right hand from the wheel and massaged her aching neck. It was her third day on the run, keeping to back roads, avoiding towns, stopping only at service stations where she could fill the fuel tank, use the facilities and grab a bite to eat.

      She was lonely, frightened, discouraged, sometimes downright angry that life wouldn’t give her a break. She’d done the right thing. Persevered on the side of justice. Cooperated with the authorities.

      Didn’t she deserve a chance at happiness or at least not to live in constant fear that her ex-husband would find a way to exact revenge?

      A weariness settled in her bones and her eyelids grew heavy. It was too early to stop for the night, still a good hour left before sundown.

      She lowered the window so that the cool air could slap her in the face and hopefully ward off the fatigue. The air had an unfamiliar fragrance. Perhaps hay, she thought, as she spotted rolls of it in the fenced pasture to her left. Cows grazed in one section, several horses roamed another.

      A strand of towering pines was to the right of the car, interspersed with oaks, junipers, sycamores and a few trees she didn’t recognize. Scattered leaves clung to the nearly bare branches. Blackbirds gathered on telephone wires. A dog barked in the distance.

      She’d never intended to drive south when she’d fled Tennessee. She’d started driving northwest, but winter storms had altered her travel plans. Desperate to put distance between herself and the man who’d snapped her picture in the library, she’d loaded her car and escaped in the middle of the night. Texas had never been in her plans, but here she was, deep in the heart of the Lone Star State, traversing countryside that seemed miles from civilization. But that was only an illusion.

      She’d seen the sign and bypassed the small, rural town of Winding Creek less than ten minutes ago. San Antonio was somewhere to the southeast of her. Mexico was due south.

      She planned to meander west, get her head on straight and settle her nerves before she made any permanent decision.

      Her foot eased on the accelerator and she faded into her thoughts and into a time back before she’d known fear. A time when she’d had friends and her grandparents were still alive. A time when she’d had dreams. A time when she’d slept without nightmares.

      Her car began to shake, the jolts yanking her back to attention. Her right tires had left the shoulder. Her grip on the wheel tightened as she fought to get the car back on the road. Once steadied, she realized how close she’d come to veering off the side of a narrow bridge.

      She could have killed herself. Crazy when she was pushing so hard because she wanted to stay alive.

      She had to stop, take a walk, or maybe a brief nap. Spotting a dirt road up ahead, she slowed to see if it was a driveway or some type of ranch road. It looked more like a road to nowhere.

      Only one way to find out. She turned right. The road was half-washed-out with deep holes and ruts so numerous they were impossible to avoid completely. The land on both sides of the road was fenced and heavily wooded.

      After about five minutes, she reached a point where she didn’t dare go farther for fear of getting stuck. She opened the door and stepped out. She felt totally isolated, as if she’d driven off the end of civilization.

      The quietness was broken only by squawking crows and the inharmonious cadence of what must be hundreds of katydids and tree frogs. A huge blue lizard rested lazily atop a weathered fence post.

      Perhaps a walk would do more to get her blood pumping than a nap. Grabbing her bright yellow cardigan, she tossed it over her shoulder.

      The weather forecast was for rain and a cold front moving in tonight, but apparently the words cold front had a different meaning here than they did in Tennessee. It was supposed to dip into the low forties tonight.

      Locking the nondescript compact car she’d traded down for from a used car dealer in Nashville, she made her way down the bumpy road, careful to avoid tripping.

      The scenery changed gradually, the woods thinning and then giving way to wide-open pastures. Clusters of cattle dotted the pastoral landscape, most grazing. At one point there were several near the fence line, much larger than they’d seemed from a distance.

      Grace loved horseback riding, but had never been on a real ranch before. She didn’t favor the idea of being up close and personal with a cow, especially one of those Texas longhorns she’d spotted over the past two days.

      The path, or what was left of it, veered right and began to climb. Grace topped a low hill and then stopped to breathe in a few gulps of the clean-smelling air. She could hear the rush of water in the distance, perhaps the river that flowed beneath the bridge she’d almost crashed into.

      She used her hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the late-afternoon sun as she scanned for sight of the river. She didn’t see it, but surprisingly she spotted a white clapboard house right there in the middle of nowhere.

      It sprawled out in all directions, its dark green shutters and front door making it appear almost like an extension of the land. The place looked so homey, so welcoming, Grace felt a twinge in her heart.

      She imagined a family inside, the mother at the range preparing dinner or perhaps helping the kids with homework around a wide kitchen table. The man, tired from a day in the fields, watching the evening news. The setting cozy. Loving.

      A life Grace would never have.

      She turned to leave. A wailing noise stopped her. An animal? The screech of a bird? Surely cows didn’t make that sound.

      She heard it again. What if it wasn’t an animal? What if someone needed help? There was no way Grace could leave without checking.

      Her concern for herself taking a backseat, Grace carefully maneuvered herself through the barbwire and into the pasture, praying she wouldn’t confront a cow or, worse, a bull. Adrenaline pulsed through her veins as she raced toward the sound.

      As she got closer, the sound became more distinct. Definitely human. A child or a woman. And it was coming from the vicinity of the house.

      * * *

      ESTHER BIT BACK tears and whispered a prayer for help. She tried to stand again, pushing herself up from the hard dry earth. Pain shot through her leg, even worse than before. She fell back to a sitting position.

      The right ankle was beet red and already swelling.

      It was her own fault. Trying to save herself a trip, she’d tried to fetch too much firewood at once. She would have made it, though, if she hadn’t stepped in a hole some darn critter had dug right there by the woodpile.

      Her ankle had twisted, the heavy load had thrown her off balance and she’d toppled like a tower of kids’ blocks.

      Her fault, but how was she to know that hauling firewood was so tricky? Charlie had done all the hauling for their entire married life.

      Salty tears began to roll down her cheeks—not all from the pain in her ankle. She missed Charlie. The house was too quiet without him, her life too lonely.